Photographs
by ExLibris3
Summary: Occasionally, she brings out the photo album and remembers. Jibbs.


_A/N: Just a little piece that came into my mind... Jen pov. Please review_

**Photographs**

The fire falters in the fireplace, a warm, reddish light spreads, not strong enough to illuminate the room, but enough that I will be able see the pictures in the photo album resting in my lap. I hug the blanket closer to me, despite the warmth the fire spreads, it's getting chilly. My eyes fleetly scan the windows on which the rain scatters hard. The sound is distant, giving the impression the rainstorm is far away, or maybe I'm just getting that impression because these photos in front of me takes me into another world. My world. My past.

The fire crackle low and a sense of serenity and peace are weaved over the small study. The leather of the chair squeaks as I shift, folding my legs under me and I place the photo album in my lap again. My fingertips gently caress the front; caress the faded golden letters that forms the word _"Paris"._ I smile sadly to myself. It's just a word, yet it means so much. A huge part – and perhaps the most important part – of my life is wrapped up in that word.

I open the album, the cover is worn, having been handled more times than I cared to remember. A lonely laugh cuts through the silence – my laugh – I always laugh when I see the first photo in the album. It's Jethro, being bored one evening and tried to amuse me with funny grimaces, only he hadn't counted on me to have a camera at hand. I'm not sure he ever forgave me for this one. But, even though he is unknowing of it, it has given me many laughs.

I flip the page; reach out a hand toward the glass of bourbon on the coffee table next to me. My thumb caresses the roughly patterned glass, remembering all the times we drunk this same beverage together. So many good times we've had, so many good times I'd never experience again.

My gaze caresses the next photo. It's both of us in this one. He is standing behind me, his arms around me and his chin resting on my shoulder. The wind was harsh that day, it kept blowing my hair out of place. It drove me nuts, I wanted to tie it up, but he told me not to, said he like it this way, it was free. Like me. He made me laugh, there out in the wind. And, whoever was behind the camera – I honestly can't remember – had caught us in a serious laughing fit. My hair was indeed everywhere, in my face, his face, straight up in the air. I look at the expression on my own face, and can't help but to envy the younger Jenny. Goofy happiness. I can't really find another way to explain that expression. And that was just how I had felt in the moment this picture had been snapped. Goofy happy. The kind of happiness that comes with being in love. I haven't had that feeling since the year this photo was taken.

I only flip through these pages of memory when I'm feeling emotional – or sentimental – neither of which happens very often, though when I am feeling it, I always bring out this particular album, in which I have all the moments captured that I want to remember. It usually makes me realize I was happy once, and recalling these times usually puts a small smile on my face. But not tonight. Tonight a single tear is created in the corner of my eye. I wonder briefly if it feels as lonely as I do.

I quickly move forward in the photo album, until finding the picture I am looking for. It's my favorite, my absolute favorite, of Jethro. I caress his face with my index finger, close my eyes and imagine myself running my hands over his skin. I smile, strangely enough I remember it so clearly, the lines, the bristles, the contours of his mouth. I remember so many nights of lying awake in our bed, watching him sleep. There was something mysterious over him, something dark that lingered within him. I could never quite grasp exactly what it was, but sometimes at night it gave him nightmares. His face contorted into a grimace of pain, and I used to take his face into my hand, run my fingertips over his features, watching how the creases slowly smoothed out, and a small smile grazed his lips.

Now I know, it was the pain of loss that tormented him. When I first heard about Shannon and Kelly, I was surprised, and at the same time I wasn't. I always knew there was something he was hiding, and frankly, we had been as intimate as two human beings can be – physically at least. But not emotionally. We kept our secrets. I wonder if I had opened up, would he too? Would it have changed anything between us? I like to think it would have.

I run my fingers over the picture again. All these photos are a reminder, a silent whispering from the past, asking to not be forgotten.

I laugh again, a low, sad sounding laugh. The memories that are conjured up are vivid; it amazes me how clearly I remember our time together. It gives me a sort of peace when I think back to the times I spend with Jethro. I have almost forgotten how good it feels to be in love and to be loved.

The sound of a door slamming rouses me, and footsteps made by wet shoes are heard from the hallway. I crane my head around, only to find a very wet Jethro Gibbs stand in the door way to my study.

I raise my eyebrows, curious to why I owe this late night visit.

"I was walking around, and this rainstorm surprised me." He says, rubbing his hands together and I can tell he is cold.

"Come on in. Sit by the fire." I invite him in and he isn't late to accept. He puts another log onto the faltering fire and then helps himself to some bourbon. He lingers at my desk, apparently unsure what to do or say.

We listen to the silence; I watch the fire cast shadows over his features. It's only the fire and rain that make sounds.

"I'm looking at some old photos, you want to see?" I say low, looking up at him. He nods briefly, before making his way over to me. He sits on the arm of my chair, his arm bracing against the back of it, and his scent envelops me and I feel my heart skip a beat at having him so close.

I feel him tilting his head, looking in the album.

"Reminiscing?" He asks. I nod shortly, wondering why the hell I asked him over here. Maybe it isn't so smart to let him know I'm still looking at these photos at times. He removes my hands from the pages, and starts flipping. I watch his face in the light from the fire as he does. Sometimes his lips curl upwards in a faint smile, sometimes he looks sad. Then he laughs.

"I remember this." He says, surprising me. I had been so intent on watching his expression change I hadn't noticed what picture he was on. I lower my gaze, and see he's on the first page. I can't stop the smile from slipping onto my lips, even if I had tried.

Though I notice his eyes slip from the photo of him to the one of us – my blood pressure increases significantly when he look at us with that intense look – I choose to comment to the first photo.

"You were so angry with me for that picture." I laugh and he looks momentarily confused. Then he catches on.

"Well, who knows, you could have e-mailed it around NCIS or something." He teases and then when he looks at me, my breath catches in my throat because I recognize the look in his eyes all too well.

The fire is reflected in his eyes, but I'm sure there is also a completely different kind of fire in them, one that I haven't seen in a long, long time.

And, slowly, so slowly, he leans closer to me. I see straight into his naked eyes, see his lips part slightly. He gradually drifts closer, his breath on my face, mingling with mine. A beat pass. Another. Then, he closes the gap between us, and I have his familiar lips on mine. My mind is reeling, my heart pounds so hard in my chest I'm afraid my ribcage will break.

I wonder briefly if this is just another vivid memory as he pulls away slightly to offer me air. I clasp his face in my hands, feel the skin that is slightly damp, feel lines that hadn't been there eight years ago, feel his lips that are moist. It's not a memory.

I meet his gaze, and he looks at me amused, smirking. He opens his mouth to speak, but I don't want to hear it, I discovered many years ago what the most effective way to shut him up is. I crash my lips against his again – hard, passionate and slightly desperate. I feel him respond. It's real. It's very real.

**The End**


End file.
